A Study In Time
by sherlockedbyben
Summary: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. But is time travel really impossible? Two parallel universes collide and timelines are accidentally switched, leaving Lestrade in a confusing position and leaving Sherlock Holmes and a certain Time Lord to solve the case. Wholock fanfic ayy!
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! Another new story I'm writing :) I haven't given up on the others, just stuck for inspiration right now and I'll update them really soon :)**

**I posted this story in the Sherlock section but then I thought hey this probably belongs in the crossover section because this will more than likely end up as a Wholock fanfic :P**

**So I recently started watching the Granada tv series of Sherlock Holmes to help me through the Sherlock hiatus and it's brilliant! Jeremy Brett is amazing as Sherlock! So I was like, imagine if the characters from both series like, met? And I especially love Lestrade, both versions of him so I was like what if there was a Timey wimey mix up and they ended up switching places?**

**This is just the beginnings of a random idea I had and it mightn't be any good but I'll give it a go! For anyone who doesn't watch Granada Holmes, the Lestrade in this chapter is the one portrayed by Colin Jeavons :)**

**Oh and it's Wholock aswell eventually :P This is my first Sherlock fanfic so I hope it's alright :P**

**Hope you like it!**

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When John Watson awoke from his uneasy but well needed slumber after assisting his friend Sherlock Holmes in taking down yet another serial killer _"Because serial killers are __**fun**__, John! There's always something to look forward to!" _ he expected it to be a relatively normal day. Well, as relatively normal as you could get when you lived with the world's only consulting detective.

He rubbed his tired eyes and shuffled into the living room to find Sherlock curled up in his favourite chair, playing the violin almost violently, the source of the noise that had woke John up in the first place. The man seemed lost in thought, a demeanour that John knew was an impenetrable reserve that could last for days on end. He ignored the musical sociopath, feeling grumpy from sleep deprivation and so busied himself with making a cup of tea.

"Ah, John," Sherlock finally acknowledged his best friend as he sat down in the chair across from him and pulled out a newspaper. John gave a huff of acknowledgment, glad that Holmes had ceased playing the instrument. Usually he enjoyed the sound, not that he'd admit it, but today Sherlock seemed to have been experimenting with a new tune, one he had not yet perfected. This was expected by John. His ambition of having a fairly normal day was so far going well. Sherlock cleared his throat after a pause when John refused to reply.

"You didn't sleep well, then."

"How could you tell?" John quipped back in a slightly sarcastic tone, attempting to concentrate on his newspaper.

"Well, your usual slouched appearance was much more pronounced as you entered the room, a touch of shaving foam behind your right ear which you either hadn't been bothered to wipe off or were just too tired to notice, most likely the latter, the glassy look in your eyes which indicates you are either extremely fatigued or are taking drugs-"

"Alright, Sherlock," John slapped his newspaper down on the table and heaved a sigh. "I _know_ I'm tired, you don't have to prove it to me."

"Just observing," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flourish. John blinked.

"Sherlock!" He heaved himself up from his chair and snatched the rest of the packet away. "Where did you get those? I thought you were supposed to be _trying_ to give them up?"

"Yes, I was doing well, wasn't I?" Sherlock took a long drag and paused as if in thought. He gave a short bark of a laugh. "Too bad."

"Right, well you're not getting these back," John lifted an eyebrow challengingly and waved the packet of cigarettes in front of Sherlock, pocketing them quickly. "You were doing good too."

Holmes rolled his eyes, unimpressed as John went back to his newspaper. He scanned over the page, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Sherlock," He began slowly, allowing concern to enter his tone which Sherlock immediately picked up on. "Have you heard from Lestrade?"

"Read it aloud," Sherlock ordered, leaning forward in his chair with his fingertips pressed together underneath his chin. If John didn't know better he could've sworn he saw a hint of worry in his friend's eyes. He cleared his throat nervously and turned his attention back to the newspaper.

"Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade has been declared missing by fellow workers at the force. He wa-"

"Missing?" Sherlock jumped up from his perch on the armchair and snatched the paper from John's hands. His eyebrows were drawn together in confusion as he scanned the page rapidly. "No, no that's not right. No one came to us, why would no one come to us for questioning before they published this?"

John shook his head slowly in confusion as Sherlock brandished the paper at him and began pacing. He had to admit, it didn't make a lot of sense.

"You've got that look on your face," John sighed, settling back into his chair.

"What look?"

"The look where you're sure there's something mysterious going on and you're determined to find out about it," John smirked. "_And_ even though you should be worried about your friend, you're actually excited that this has happened. I know you, Sherlock, I know your face."

"Oh, come on, John!" Sherlock waved his hands at him in encouragement. "This article has to be a fake! Written by someone to cover up something, I don't know yet, I... I don't know. All I know is that something's wrong. Phone Lestrade. Now!"

"Alright," John mumbled, standing up and fumbling for his phone.

"Oh, let me," Sherlock strode over impatiently and plucked the phone from John's pocket before he even had the chance to locate it. He turned away and began texting rapidly. John took the opportunity to have another closer inspection of the paper. He must've missed something, something wasn't right about this. His eyes widened as he gazed at the front page of the paper.

"What..." He murmured in confusion, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock, what date is it?" John's voice shook slightly.

"For God sake, John," Sherlock gave him a superior look as he glanced up from his phone. "It's the 17th of May."

"2014?"

"Yes, 2014," Sherlock snorted. "Honestly, John, what is wrong with you today? You're even more incompetent than usual."

"_Sherlock_," John almost yelled, deciding to ignore the insult. He swallowed to allow his voice to calm down after his exclamation. He took a deep breath and stood, striding over to Sherlock and thrusting the paper in his face. "This paper is dated the 19th of May 2014! That's two days from now!"

Sherlock paused. "Misprint. Obviously."

"No, no it's not!" John prodded the paper with his finger, beginning to lose his patience. "Look!"

Sherlock frowned at the paper and remained silent for a while. John almost felt accomplished at the fact that he had stumped him for a moment.

"What, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what's going on for once?" John pressed on. "Come on, Sherlock, you know something's not right! You're the clever one, go on, deduce something!"

"There must be some sort of logical explanation," Sherlock threw the paper back to John and went to stand by the window, fingers steepled underneath his chin again as he thought. As confused and worried as he was, John couldn't suppress a smile at the thought of Sherlock Holmes not knowing what to do. It was a dose of medicine that the clever man needed sometimes, just to bring him back to Earth and make him remember that normal people mattered too.

"It's killing you, isn't it?" John shook his head at his friend's back. "You don't know what's going on and you hate it-"

"We have a client," Sherlock murmured in a low atone, cutting John off.

"Are you sure?" John joined Sherlock at the window to stare out at the street below. He frowned, puzzled. "I don't see anyone."

"Yes, but listen. They're inside, and they've only just arrived as it seems from the tone of conversation. But I didn't see anyone enter and you didn't see anyone enter, and that's what worries me."

John strained his ears and looked to the door where he could hear muffled voices from beyond.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm Mrs Hudson! I've been known by that name for as long as I can rememb- No, Sherlock's not taking visitors at the moment, you can't just walk up-"

"Did you say Sherlock?"

John and Sherlock looked at each other at the unfamiliar voice who used the name in a shocked tone. The voice was masculine and sounded irritated at his situation.

There was a string of muffled swear words from the man accompanied by an exclamation by the same voice of "What is going on?!" and footsteps hurried up the stairs to their apartment, followed by Mrs Hudson's irritated cry of, "I'm sorry, Sherlock! I tried to stop him!"

John balled his hands into fists and took a step towards the door but stopped as it swung open suddenly and a man burst through, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Mr Holmes?" He choked out, looking from Sherlock to John then around the rest of the room as if another individual could be in hiding there.

John blinked at the strange scene in front of him. He didn't know this man, and by Sherlock's surprised silence, he didn't either. The man was around the same age as themselves, if not slightly older, and of average height. He had a ferret-like face which housed an expression of suspicion and his eyebrows were drawn together in confusion as he glanced around the room again. The only odd thing about his appearance was the fashion in which he dressed. From his grey suit to the bowler hat on his head, all his clothes dated back to the 1880's. There was a look of startled disbelief in his dark brown eyes and his mouth dropped open in surprise at the two men. He was struggling to catch his breath at his brisk run up the stairs in his hurry to get to them.

"That would be me," Sherlock broke the silence and took a step forward, and John could tell he was already studying the man in great detail. He could almost see the cogs whirring in his head. The only thing that put John off was the look of frustration in Sherlock's expression which had replaced his usual confidence when deducing the facts about someone. He seemed to be as confused as John was to this man's sudden entrance.

"Mr Holm- Are you having a laugh?" The man yelped, taking a step forward and glaring at Sherlock. "I'm not incompetent, Sir! I know Mr Sherlock Holmes when I see him!"

"But-"

"And what of Dr John Watson?" The man interrupted. "What have you done with them?!"

"Listen, calm down," John cut in, holding his hands out in front of him comfortingly and taking a step forward. The man spoke in a distinguished, old fashioned tone which seemed out of place in the 21st century London apartment. "You seem very, er, confused right now but-"

"This is 221B, is it not?" The man's expression turned to confusion as he looked around. "What the blazes is going on?"

"Yes, this is 221B and my name is Sherlock Holmes, this is my colleague Dr John Watson," Sherlock took another step towards the man. "And who might you be?"

"If you really were him, you'd know who I am, _Mr Holmes,"_ The man quipped back suspiciously, removing his hat to reveal a head of dark hair as he strode towards Sherlock in annoyance. He stopped directly in front of him and the two men glared at each other, the unfamiliar man's eyes flashing threateningly even though he was at least a head shorter than Sherlock.

"Your name," Sherlock growled impatiently.

"I am Inspector Lestrade!" The man yelled, refusing to back down. "And this _is_ 221B, and I want to know what you've done with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson! Have you kidnapped them, hidden them somewhere? Or are you really as dunce-like and oblivious as you seem? By George if you know I'll have it out of you!"

Sherlock blinked in surprise, stunned into silence. John opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. He was in complete and utter shock. Was this a joke, or was the man really out of his mind? He stared, feeling hopelessly puzzled. The man who had identified himself as Lestrade looked to John.

"What are you gaping at?" He yelled, his nerves on end. "I could have you arrested for assaulting an officer with your eyes!"

"You can't do that, that's not even an offenc-"

"Hush, John," Sherlock held a hand up and looked to Lestrade in curiosity. He seemed to have found his voice again and his eyes were alight with excitement at the mystery of this man. "Well you certainly do a good impression of the Lestrade we know, a slightly unintelligent officer with a temper, if impersonating him was what you were going for."

"Imperson-" Lestrade's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Impersonating?" He cried indignantly. "The only impersonators here are you two! Oh, and that woman downstairs who claims to be Mrs Hudson. I don't know what's going on here, but I think you'd better fill me in!"

"Alright, that's enough," John threw his hands up in defeat. "I don't know what's going on, or why you're pretending to be Lestrade but-"

"Hang on, John, I think he may be telling the truth."

"Yea- Wait, what?" John cried, turning to Sherlock in disbelief. "Sh- Sherlock, you don't really believe that this man is Lestrade, do you? Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard?"

"Everything I say is the truth, it is you who's acting deceitful, clearly!" Lestrade cried, pointing a finger accusingly at John. "Tell me what's going on!"

"May I ask you, what year is it to you?" Sherlock asked Lestrade before John could intercept indignantly.

"To me?" The man frowned. "Whatever do you mean, _to me_? Are you implying that I am not in my right mind, Sir?!"

"No, no of course not," Sherlock stated blandly with a hint of curiousity in his eyes. "I am merely asking you a question."

"Well then, I'll _merely_ answer you. It is the 15th of May, 1891."

John did a double take but his companion merely widened his eyes slightly, an expression of excitement crossing his features.

"Well, John, I think we have another case."

"Sherlock, you don't really believe this man, do you?!" John cried in disbelief. None of what this "Lestrade" was saying made any sense.

"On the contrary, John, I do," Sherlock gave a small smile. "This man is telling the truth."

"How-"

"The gait of his walk, the way he dresses and speaks all indicates to being accustomed to life in the 1800's-"

"He could be a really good actor."

"Yes he could now let me finish, John," Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth with annoyance at the interruption. "The raw confusion in his eyes as he entered the room, the conversation with Mrs Hudson all show that something is not right. Of course, as you so kindly informed us, he could be acting but I have eliminated that possibility due to _this_."

Sherlock held up a small card and a small fragmented piece of paper.

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise and his hands flew to his pockets. He frowned as he realised that his possessions were missing. "How did you get a hold of them?!"

"Much the same way I got these from John this morning on the pretense of taking his phone," Sherlock smirked, taking the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. John sighed in irritation, but was not completely surprised. "I am excellent at pickpocketing, and you, Lestrade, are excellent at _not_ observing what is going on around you. Same goes for you, John."

John ignored the jibe and snatched the papers from Sherlock's hands. One was a card of identification, definitely not from this century, and the other a small snippet of a letter written on aged parchment with black ink.

"Before you say they were forged, they're not," Sherlock took the papers from John and handed them back to Lestrade who pocketed them gratefully. "The card could not have been forged, and it wasn't just saved for an awfully long time for this purpose as it is still in good nick, obvious that the owner is proud of his position and considers himself a better policeman than he actually is, which sounds a lot like our dear friend, Lestrade."

Before Lestrade could object, Sherlock Holmes carried on speaking in the same brisk tone. John had to strain his ears to catch all of it and he could tell that Lestrade was having trouble keeping up aswell by the way he leaned forward in curiousity.

"Also this letter extract, clearly evidence that the Inspector had come to bring to me as he always does when himself and the rest of the force at Scotland Yard are out of their depth, which is their normal state. The sloped writing, the old fashioned ink that has barely dried shows that it has been written recently, but the paper has a softer more textured feel to it than modern paper you can get these days, although the condition of it suggests that it is new. The way the words have been written in such a sloppy style but with small intervals of more neater handwriting shows that this was written on a train, Inspector, in case you didn't know which of course, you did not. The neater writing indicates the stations, the sloppy, irregular writing was done while the train was in motion. Although clearly this letter which was written recently in the last 24 hours was also not written in this century for no trains with this many intervals run in this day and age and the letter was written on the way to London and delivered by hand, no envelope judging by it's weathered condition. Someone wanted it to be delivered quickly and safely. So there you have it, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This man is no fraud, John. And Inspector Lestrade, neither are we. Not even Mrs Hudson."

"By Jove, it really is you," Lestrade breathed in awe. "No one else could fake being such an insufferable know-it-all. But how-"

"Good question," Sherlock began to pace again as he thought. "My conclusion is that none of this makes sense and none of it should be happening. Time travel is the only explanation I have not eliminated, but that's impossible! I must have missed something."

"Seems like we've got ourselves a real conundrum then, Mr Holmes," Lestrade raised his eyebrows and looked around the room. John went to sit down before his legs failed him. Surely Sherlock had had a momentary loss of sanity. None of this made any sense, although when explained by Sherlock Holmes, it made perfect sense.

"But you can't be suggesting that I've somehow stepped out of 1891 and into some other time," Lestrade began again with a laugh. "Mr Holmes, if that's really who you are, I don't pretend to understand what's going on but, surely you are aware that this can't be possible?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked over at him. "Oh yes, perfectly aware. I'm still struggling to believe this myself. Maybe we've been drugged. John, check the sugar."

At that moment a rather loud vehicle passed by the flat on the street outside, causing a loud rumble to run through the house. Sherlock and John took no notice, but Lestrade shrieked in fear.

"Bombs!" He yelled, flinging himself down on the ground and attempting to shield himself with his hat. "We're dead!"

Sherlock struggled to suppress a laugh. "Come out from under the table, Lestrade, there's no war. That was probably just a cab."

"A cab?" Lestrade exclaimed, standing up shakily and ramming his hat back onto his head. "Don't be dense, Holmes! Cabs don't make that sound!"

John watched with amusement as the man made his way over to the window, mumbling about cabs.

"Horses don't sound like bloody earthquak- Oh good Lord Almighty!"

Lestrade jumped back from the window with a shout and spun around to face the two with fear on his face. He looked back to the street and blanched, covering his face with his hands and taking deep breaths.

"Now, calm down," John began, moving to assist him, his instincts as a doctor taking over.

"What have you two gentlemen been giving me?!" Lestrade yelled accusingly. "You've obviously slipped me drugs! What was it then, eh, Mr Holmes? I know you have a penchant for cocaine!"

"This is nothing to do with us," Sherlock explained. "It's the twenty first century."

"The- The twenty first..." Lestrade stuttered in confusion.

"This is the year 2014," John added helpfully.

"Oh my word," Lestrade held a hand to his head and closed his eyes momentarily before looking out at the street again in disbelief. Sherlock stood behind him, peering over his shoulder with an amused smirk as the man gaped at the scene in front of him. John realised it must be awfully startling to see the modernised view of London after living your whole life in the 19th century.

"Well, Mr Holmes, I've got your conclusion for you," Lestrade began slowly, retreating from the window and blinking a few times as if he thought what he was seeing would change at any moment. "I have obviously slipped into a coma and am currently dreaming this whole thing up."

"And any second now, you'll wake up in Victorian London?" Sherlock asked with a slightly sarcastic tone.

"Well what other explanation is there for all this tomfoolery!" The inspector retorted indignantly. "I haven't got the ability to time travel! See, I knew it! You have no explanation, do you, _Mr Holmes_? You're just as in the dark as I am!"

"We'll find a rational explanation," Sherlock shrugged. "Even if it turns out that we are all comatose. In the meantime, have a cigarette, Lestrade."

"I beg your pardon?" Lestrade glared suspiciously at the small cigarette Sherlock had produced from his pocket and was now offering him.

"What? You still smoke, don't you?"

"Yes," Lestrade began slowly, the suspicious glare remaining on his face. "But I think I'll have my own, _Mr Holmes_, thank you very much."

He withdrew a pipe from his coat pocket, and looked from Sherlock to John almost anxiously. "Have either of you gentlemen got a match?"

"Lighter," Sherlock stated, retrieving it from his pocket and handing it to Lestrade who stared at it in amazement but did not take it.

"I don't know what Space-Age gadget you're offering me, Mr Holmes, but-"

"Oh for God sake, Sherlock!" John sighed, walking over and taking the object from his hand. "The man doesn't even know what a cigarette is, how is he supposed to know how to use a lighter?"

John did not usually approve of smoking, but he decided that Lestrade was in need of a smoke. Even he himself could've done with a cigarette at that moment. He felt like he was in a dream, or even a coma, as Lestrade had suggested, and any minute now he would wake up and himself and Sherlock would laugh about this strange dream and find another, more simple case to work on. This definitely was the most peculiar case they had come across yet.

He flicked the lighter, the orange flame bursting into life. Lestrade screamed.

"Maniacs!" He cried, dropping his pipe and stepping backwards. "Both of you!"

John blinked in surprise before realising his mistake and Sherlock laughed. He actually laughed.

The consulting detective picked Lestrade's pipe from the floor and used the lighter to light it, handing it to a wary Inspector Lestrade.

He took it slowly, placing the pipe in his mouth and taking a long drag. He shook his head slowly at the two twenty first century live-ins in front of him but remained silent, slightly calmed by the smoke of the pipe.

"Lestrade, I'm sure you'll have problems more serious than a simple lighter as we begin to unravel this case."

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**So that's the end of the first chapter :D Hope it was alright! Please review if you have the chance to let me know if you liked it and what you thought :) Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two ayy! This one is Lestrade from the modern BBC drama Sherlock in Jeremy Brett's era, so just to clear things up, this Lestrade is the one played by Rupert Graves and Holmes and Watson are Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke :P**

**Hope you like it!**

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Lestrade let out a low grunt, raising his head from the hard wooden floor as he began to register his surroundings. He blinked in surprise as he realised that the memories currently flooding back into his addled brain did not correspond with the scene around him. He had been on his way to visit Sherlock, hadn't he? Yes, of course he had, he had been in a hurry too, not only to consult with the slightly hostile detective but also to get out of the goddamn snow storm outside. The last thing he could remember before blacking out was rushing to let himself in, a crucial piece of police evidence in hand.

But the room he was in now was not what he had expected. It was dimly lit, an oil lamp set on a small table the only source of light, though it gave off a strong glow. A dim doily, heavy with grey crochet was draped over the table. It one of the only pieces of furniture in the cramped hall which was to be expected. What wasn't to be expected, was the furniture itself. It looked like nothing Lestrade had seen in recent years and appeared to belong to a different era. A few framed photographs hung on the walls, covering patches of wallpaper that had not been there the last time Lestrade had seen it. Had Mrs Hudson been redecorating?

"My goodness! Whatever are you doing down there, young man?"

Lestrade hurriedly picked himself up off the floor and blinked at the unfamiliar elderly woman approaching him. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words, running a hand throw his greying hair in distress. This woman wasn't Mrs Hudson.

"Are you here to see Mr Holmes? You should know that he doesn't take visitors unless there is an appointment or an urgent matter at hand," The woman glared at him unwelcomingly when Lestrade did not respond. "If you would so kindly speak, Sir, and tell me as to why you are dripping all over my floor!"

"Y- Your floor?" Lestrade wasn't usually a man for stuttering, but he found himself at a loss for words as he shuffled nervously under the woman's suspicious gaze. He stuffed his hands into his pockets in a practically futile attempt to stop the melted snow from running from his sleeves onto the floorboards.

"Honestly!" The woman exclaimed in annoyance, rushing to the door and fastening the bolts. "You didn't even have the deceny to close the door! Were you raised in a barn?"

"I- Bloody hell- What is going on?!" Lestrade burst out, gazing around the room again. He hadn't got the wrong flat, that he was sure of, so why did this place look like a house from the 1800's? It had a distinctly Victorian feel about it and was completely unfamiliar to the inspector, save for the structure of the building itself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, young man, but I suggest you leave unless you have further business here," The woman instructed. Lestrade gaped as he took in the woman's full appearance. She was dressed in old fashioned attire, complete with a dress that flowed to her ankles and her greying hair was pinned up into a tight bun. A dark navy shawl was draped around her thin shoulders to keep out the cold. She wore a golden chain around her neck and a scowl on her aged face.

"What the hell are you wearing that for?" He spluttered before he could stop himself. "Is this some sort of joke? Fancy dress, is it? Bloody hel- Where's Sherlock?"

"I beg your pardon-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted the woman, annoyance taking over. If this was some sort of joke the prat had played on him, he was not amused. "Oi! Sherlock, get down here!"

"Get out of my house!" The woman practically yelled, pointing a finger at Lestrade. He snorted.

"Whatever, I'm here to see that idiot Sherlock and I'm not leaving until I do. This is 221B, right?"

"Yes, it is-"

"Well then where the bloody hell is he?!" Lestrade roared, causing the woman to jump.

"Could you keep your voice down?"

"Not really!" Lestrade yelled, spinning around to face the owner of the new voice that had just made itself known. The voice belonged to a man, a man that Lestrade had never laid eyes on before. The inspector stopped, mouth agape as he stared at the man at the top of the stairs. He had fully been expecting to see Sherlock, but this man was not the Holmes he knew.

This man was tall and lean and was slightly older than Sherlock, though some features were similar, such as the smug look of confidence on his face when he had made a deduction. He had a hawkish face and slick black hair, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into Lestrade. He had that same air of confidence and knowledge that Sherlock Holmes had. But this couldn't be Sherlock Holmes, even if he was standing in his flat as if he owned the place.

"Is there a problem here, Mrs Hudson?" The man inquired in a distinguished English accent, much unlike Lestrade's.

"In fact there is, Mr Holmes, this young man-"

"Hang on, hang on a sec," Lestrade put his hands up and looked from the woman who was apparently Mrs Hudson to the man who had just been identified as Mr Holmes. "So apparently this is Mrs Hudson? You've got to be joking me! I know Mrs Hudson when I see her, she's always talking about reality tv shows and her bad hip!"

"Perhaps we should inform Dr Watson of your arrival," Holmes smirked, giving Lestrade a curious stare which made him feel uneasy. "It appears this man is quite confused."

"Are you calling me mad?" Lestrade yelled, rounding on the man. "What the- Jesus Christ, I need to smoke."

"Ah! Splendid idea," Holmes smiled widely. "Why don't you join me upstairs, I'm well due a smoke aswell."

"Nice try, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"I am Sherlock Holmes," The man replied with a cocked eyebrow. "And you, my dear fellow, are most intriquing. Do come upstairs. Mrs Hudson, tea, if you will?"

"Oi, hang on a sec," Lestrade gave a gruff laugh. "Did you just say, you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, for the third time now, do come along, good man."

"Bollocks!"

"Swearing does not impress me, not even when it's coming from a policman who has been in the force for approximately twenty years."

"Yeah wel- You what?" Lestrade frowned and reluctantly followed the man upstairs, the stairs that were so familiar to him yet so unbearably different.

The man ushered him through the door and closed it behind them as Lestrade gaped at the scene in front of him. The layout was exactly identicle to the 221B he knew, but everything else about it was completely different. The various tables and desks were littered with papers, a few oil lamps were tossed here and there and newpapers were strewn across an old armchair. He didn't fail to notice the familiar violin layed carefully on the old fashioned couch, or the multiple syringes and other recreational substances laying around. He swallowed thickly, feeling dread form in the pit of his churning stomach. There was no technology or anything from the twenty first century to be seen. Something was not right.

"What's going on?" He demanded weakly. "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

"Ah, Holmes, another client?" A smiling man sporting a moustache complete with a pipe hanging out of his mouth looked up from his position in an armchair. "Bit late isn't it? Is that what the commotion downstairs was?"

"Ah, my dear, Watson, always asking question after question," Holmes smiled, offering a chair to Lestrade.

"I'll stand, thanks," He muttered, burying his hands into his pockets again and straining his neck to look into all corners of the small flat. "Are Sherlock and John going to pop out from beneath a table or a cupboard or something?" He raised his voice to call out to the two who he assumed must be in hiding. There was no other logical explanation. "All right, boys, fun's over!"

"My apologies, Sir, but-"

"Or the fridge, maybe?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, realising his tone was becoming more manic by the second but unable to bring himself to care. He stalked over to the fridge. "I know there's room in there, _Sherlock,_ you kept a severed head in there once!"

"Sit down!" Holmes ordered stenrly with a raised voice that startled even Lestrade and had him retreating from the fridge, which he found was devoids of humans, even just heads. "Why don't you tell us you're story? I am quite enthralled by your strange behaviour and attire, pray tell, what has brought you here?"

Lestrade paused and remained standing. "I don't know who you are, you don't know who I am, I don't even know what's going on. That's all there is to tell, happy now?"

"I know that you are a policeman, one who thinks rather highly of himself and considers himself a bit more capable than you really are, I'm afraid. You have just earned some rather startling news, a murder, perhaps? Yes, a murder, nearby, in fact. Obvious by the proof of DNA sample in your hand. You came here for help but instead all you have found so far is stress which has led to you wanting to smoke even though you are struggling to give up the habit. You haven't been having a good day at work, your boss gave out to you and distilled your chances of promotion that you so desperately craved. You set out to come here but once you have arrived, have no idea where you are or why you are here. Is that enough to be going on?

"Bloody hell," Lestrade breathed, eyes wide. Everything the man had deduced was spot on, something only Sherlock Holmes would be able to do. "You're the third Holmes brother, aren't you?! I mean, you must be related to Sherlock and Mycroft to be talking like that."

"Holmes, what is this poppycock?" Watson scoffed with a laugh. "Who is this strange fellow? And may I ask, dear sir, where did you purchase your suit? It is nothing like I have ever seen before, I'd quite like to buy one-"

"Watson, this is no time for exchanging shopping tips," Holmes silenced him, leaning forward in his seat to gaze at Lestrade attentfully. "What is your name, good man?"

"Greg Lestrade!" He almost yelled. "And I know you're not Sherlock Holmes because you look nothing like him. Sherlock's all... Curly hair and-"

"Holmes, this man is obviously pyscologically disturbed."

"Oi!"

"Maybe so, Watson, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't give him the time of day," Holmes smiled in curiousity, his dark eyes never leaving Lestrade.

"Time of night, more like! Look at the hour!"

"Well you can go off to bed if you want, Sunshine, but I want answers from someone," Lestrade demanded, balling his hands into fists in frustration. "What is this bollocks?!"

"Oh wonderful, Holmes, really wonderful. You picked up another that swears like a sailor."

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING O-"

"Tea, boys?"

Letrade paused in his rant as Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs with a tray consisting of a pot of tea and three mugs. Lestrade felt his heart warm slightly. He offered the woman a curious smile.

"Thought you weren't their housekeeper?" He raised an eyebrow, as she poured the tea. The Mrs Hudson he knew never failed to remind John and Sherlock of the fact.

"Excuse me?"

"Ignore him, Mrs Hudson, my dear," Holmes stated lightly with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He's not in his right mind."

"I'd believe it, "Mrs Hudson declared wryly, handing Lestrade his tea and placing the other two cups on the coffee table next to Holmes and Watson.

"Where's the biscuits?" Lestrade yelled at her retreating back in annoyance at her condescending tone.

"I'm not _your _housekeeper!"

Lestrade scoffed, almost burning his tongue on his tea. "Where was I? Oh yeah, you two are lunatics!"

"Says the one talking absolute raving nonsense!" Watson exclaimed. Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but stopped as he realised something vital. The lack of noise. Baker street was never this quite. You couldn't go five seconds without a cab passing noisily. Lestrade rushed over to the window and stared at the scene outside. He gave a yell and turned around to point an accusing finger at Holmes.

"Ooooh, you bastard," He growled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. Holmes barely reacted, simply widened his eyes slightly at the exclamation. "Horse and carts, really? You've really outdone youself this time, Sherlock. You went to all the effort to rent out a horse and cart just to play a stupid, idiotic joke on me? I'm not stupid, whatever you might say!"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Holmes almost looked amused, though seemed unimpressed.

"And cobbled streets!" Lestrade turned back to the window, revealing what looked to be Victorian London. "I know you have friends in high places, Sherlock, but cobbled streets? Seriously? You twat! Mycroft's going to kill you for messing around like this."

"Has he perhaps had too much to drink? Overly generous with the port?" Watson hissed to Holmes who let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"No, no my dear Watson this man seems to be telling what he believes is the truth," Holmes stood and produced a pipe from his pocket. "What is your name, you never did enlighten us?"

Lestrade stared at the pipe in Holmes' hands and mulled it all over. Doubt was starting to settle in his mind. Surely even Sherlock wouldn't go to such extravagant lengths just to play a prank on him, would he? But this man couldn't be who he said he was, he couldn't be Sherlock Holmes. He looked nothing like him. Though his manner was quite the same, except for the fact that he spoke as if he was from the nineteenth century.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," He choked out after a pause. "Or Greg. But people don't usually bother with that. Or bother to remember it."

Holmes let out a small surprised exlcamation of "Oh!" and Watson did a double take.

"Nonsense!" Watson gave a guffaw. "That is not Lestrade!"

"Oh, this is most peculiar," Holmes paused mid smoke. "Lestrade? Well this man is certainly as much of a fool as the Lestrade we know."

"Ah now, Holmes, he's not that incompetent," Watson chided lightly. "Just because you're smarter than everyone else doesn't mean you can put them down all the time."

"As you keep reminding me," Holmes stated dryly. "Would you care for a smoke, Lestrade?"

"I gave up, remember? You _deduced_ that, Sherlock Holmes, if that's who you really are," Lestrade pulled up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch. "See? I'm doing well."

"Ah! Marvelous!" Holmes gasped, rushing over to stare at Lestrade's arm intently. Lestrade frowned in confusion as his arm was examined by the man. "Watson, come look at this! It stops the craving for tobacco, yes? What a wonderful invention!"

"I- You what?" Lestrade pulled his arm away. "You've never heard of nicotine patches?"

"What did you say they're called?" Watson had stood up to gain a closer look. Lestrade was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic. "He must have imported them. From Egypt, no doubt."

"How do you not know about these?" Lestrade spluttered. "Where have you been living these past few years? Stuck in the 1800's? You're still smoking a pipe, for God sake!"

Lestrade blanched at the puzzled look Holmes and Watson exchanged.

"What?" Lestrade demanded nervously. "Look, you're not the Sherlock I know but that doesn't mean you have to leave me out of the loop like he does. What is it? What'd I say?"

"_Lestrade,_" Watson tried out the name slowly, almost disbelievingly. "You do realise what year it is, yes?"

"2014, I'm not stupid," Lestrade laughed, his chuckle fading away slightly by the shocked looks on the two men's faces.

"Detective Inspector, it is the 15th of May 1891," Holmes stated cautiously. Lestrade gaped at him. It couldn't be, none of this made any sense. His hand roamed to his arm of it's own accord and gave it a pinch, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The sharp pain told him he wasn't, and that this really was the messed up, confusing reality that he was trapped in.

"I think I'm going to need a cigarette," He breathed, removing his emergency pack from inside his coat.

"I thought you said you were giving u-"

"Just shut up and let me smoke!" Lestrade sat down in a chair before his legs failed him. This could not be happening. None of this was possible. He whipped out his phone and checked it. No signal, no hope of sending a text for help. He took a deep breath.

"By George, what is that futuristic device you've got there, Lestrade?" Watson breathed, rushing over, his tea forgotten in his excitement.

"Mobile phone," Lestrade muttered weakly. "I don't suppose either of you have a lighter?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear fellow," Holmes began as Watson examined his phone keenly with a look of wonder on his face akin to that of a small child on Christmas day. "But I will light your 'cigarette' with this match."

"I'll bet that thing was imported from Egypt too," Watson pointed at the cigarette in Lestrade's mouth as Holmes held a flame to it. "Does it contain tobacco?"

"Of course it- Oh Jesus," Lestrade took a long drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves, having missed the sensation as he hadn't smoked for weeks now, save for the odd one or two here and there.

"You really are Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" Lestrade stated more than asked as Holmes snatched the phone from Watson's hands and gazed at it with wide eyes.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, that I am," Holmes muttered, more interested in the phone than in Lestrade. Some things never change, he thought to himself. "This contraption, you referred to it as a mobile phone? How fascinating! Can you make calls on it?"

"For once, I know more than Sherlock Holmes does," Lestrade allowed himself a smile before taking another drag of cigarette smoke and commencing to explain the ins and outs of a mobile phone to the consulting detective and his friend the doctor.

* * *

**So, any good? :D Should I continue? It's quite fun to write :P Please review to let me know what you think, it'd make my day :)**


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